


Float On (OT3 Hugging Fic for Hermette & Eldee)

by FaeryQueen07



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual Hugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-15
Updated: 2011-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:44:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeryQueen07/pseuds/FaeryQueen07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It's more like dubious consent where the hugging is concerned, and even that doesn't last long.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Float On (OT3 Hugging Fic for Hermette & Eldee)

**Author's Note:**

> It's more like dubious consent where the hugging is concerned, and even that doesn't last long.

It isn't that Arthur is _emotionally constipated_. He's not. After all, he felt _terrible_ about that whole unicorn fiasco and Morgana's betrayal hurt him. So he didn't spend days weeping like _some_ people. That doesn't mean he does not know how to communicate his fee--fine. So maybe he's a tad _stunted_ , but he is the future king. It's his job to keep a level head. Besides, Merlin weeps enough for an entire patrol unite. A _large_ patrol.

This brings him back to his current problem, namely Merlin. Or more specifically, Merlin and _Gwaine_. The newly-knighted Sir I-can't-keep-my-hands-off-the-prince's-manservant Gwaine. Although, now that Arthur really thinks about it, it isn't as though Merlin has ever tried to stop Gwaine from getting handsy. In fact, Merlin returns the touches in spades.

They are doing it now, Gwaine's arm around Merlin's shoulders, their heads close together. Arthur doesn't get it, does not understand how they can just _do_ that, like it's perfectly normal. It isn't. Is it?

Arthur lets his thoughts consume him as he heads for the armory. Everyone else will have gone already, eager to return to their quarters for lunch. Only Arthur is left behind, because of course he already sent Merlin away, not wanting to bear witness to more _touching_. This means he has only himself to blame when he finds himself struggling with his chainmail. After he fumbles the straps of his vambraces a fourth time, Arthur gives up and slumps down onto the bench in defeat.

He is startled out of his not-a-sulk by a hand settling onto his shoulder, and if it were not for the fact that Arthur has a sense for all his knights, if he were not absolutely positive that it was Gwaine, (and why, for fuck's sake, does it have to be _him_ of all people), Arthur would have run them through without a second thought. He wonders if it is too late to do so anyway.

The grip tightens briefly, but when Arthur tries to shrug him off, Gwaine merely shifts his hand so that he is kneading Arthur's shoulders. _Kneading_. Arthur's _shoulder_.

"Why so tense, princess? I thought we did quite well today."

It's true. Today's training session was the beat so far this week. Which is why that is not the problem. The problem is--

"Why are you always _touching_ ," Arthur demands, and even though he sounds furious, Gwaine does not flinch. He laughs quietly, though, making Arthur feel like an idiot.

Gwaine doesn’t speak right away, which is completely out of character, or at least as far as Arthur can tell. He’s brash, cheerful, flirtatious. Lancelot is the one who likes to think things out. He’s what Morg—he’s what Arthur suspects people would call a lover. A romanticist. Gwaine is just a bit of a slag. And Arthur, well, he’s the crown prince, which means he’s perfectly well rounded and not all emotionally _constipated_.

“My mother told me, when I was a boy, that people need to be touched. That a babe’s first experiences in life are through touch. His mother’s finger stroking his cheek to encourage him to latch on, his father’s hands cradling him. People who are touched, who touch other people, and enjoy it learn how to communicate their feelings. It’s like when you hug Merlin.”

“Excuse me?” Arthur knows how he sounds. He’s aiming for dangerous, angry even, but he can tell from the glint in Gwaine’s eyes that he’s fallen frightfully short.

“You know, when you—”

“I do not,” Arthur states, and he has to force himself not to grind his teeth, “hug Merlin. The idea is completely ludicrous.”

Gwaine smiles, and it’s clear he thinks Arthur is fucking with him. It is the only excuse Arthur finds even slightly within the realm of understandable.

“Fine, princess. How about when you hug—” Something in Arthur’s expression makes Gwaine go all thinky-quiet and that’s when Arthur knows he is doomed. The amusement that was nearly Gwaine’s death sentence has melted away, and in its stead, much to Arthur’s horror, is stunned disbelief. “Wait. You—you’ve never...” He mimes a hug with his arms, apparently unable to put it into words. “Not even Merlin?”

“ _Especially_ not Merlin,” Arthur bites out, because now that Gwaine has brought it up, Arthur recalls just how much he does not like their...handsiness. Or whatever. They just hug a lot. Not even _Lancelot_ hugs Merlin that much, and they have known each other much longer.

“You can’t really screw up a hug. And even if you did, it’s not like Merlin would make fun of you.”

“You can’t—crown princes can’t just go around _hugging_ people!” Arthur does not even bother trying to keep the affront out of his tone.

“It’s as easy—”

“Says the slag,” Arthur mutters.

“—as wielding a sword,” Gwaine continues, ignoring Arthur’s slur against his character. “Easier, even, if you’d believe that.”

Before Arthur quite realizes what is happening, Gwaine is stepping into his space, crowding up until they are touching from knee to chest. It’s fast, and Arthur has been cleverly boxed in, so there is no escaping when Gwaine’s arms come up to wrap around him. Arthur goes stiff in the embrace, unsure of what to do. Is there some sort of hugging etiquette? Where do his hands go? On Gwaine’s shoulders? His arms? He stays still, spine ramrod straight, arms unbending at his sides, and waits for it to be over.

And then...

And then Gwaine starts _touching_ him. Nothing sexual, just flattens his hands against Arthur’s back and moves them up and down in wide, sweeping motions. And the longer Gwaine keeps it up – and Arthur is perfectly willing to ignore the way Gwaine is crooning softly in his ear like Arthur is a fucking spooked horse – the more comfortable Arthur grows until it just seems right that his own hands should come up. That he should spread his fingers wide and feel the hard lines of Gwaine’s back and shoulders, the way his shirt slips and slides beneath Arthur’s palms. It _is_ easy, and Arthur just sinks into it, lets Gwaine pull him closer as they forget where they are. That anyone could come in. Neither thinks on it until a small, pained sound draws them back into the present and Arthur is half afraid to look up. When he does, he feels even worse, because Merlin is staring at them wide-eyed and hurt.

When Merlin turns to flee, they are both right behind him.

They get as far as the field before Arthur recalls himself. It wouldn't do to go chasing after his manservant still in his chainmail. He slows to a stop, stares at the quickly diminishing expanse of Merlin's back and sighs because what is he supposed to say? He has no clue what is going on between Merlin and Gwaine. Does not know if he has managed to hurt them both.

"He'll be in your chambers," Gwaine says, breaking the tense silence. "He told me earlier Gaius needed his help while we were training, so he still needs to finish the chores you gave him this morning."

Arthur nods and starts forward again only to stop once more. He looks back at Gwaine, uncertain. Says, "Look, about earlier..." then stops.

Gwaine smiles wide, teeth flashing in a way that would seem predatory if Arthur were the 'prey' type. He's not, so he merely quirks an eyebrow.

"Don't worry, princess," Gwaine says, slow and filthy, like Arthur is one of his tarts. "We're not even _close_ to done."

"I won't—you should be thinking about Merlin. He's not—he's a bit of an idiot, yes, and he's always late with my breakfast. Literally cannot use a sword to save his life, but he's not—you're a knight now, Gwaine. No knight of Camelot will be allowed to treat his... _companion_ with so little regard."

Gwaine is not laughing now, but he isn't frowning either. His smile is softer, and he moves to stand beside Arthur, draping an arm around his shoulders as he propels them toward the castle. Arthur allows it because – and he will deny this until the day he dies – the feel of Gwaine's arm is _nice_. Solid, strong; completely unlike that of a woman, and _there_ is something to think about.

They let Merlin have his head start, not speaking as they walk. Arthur thinks that maybe he should press home his point or that he should let Gwaine go after Merlin alone, but that would be cowardly. If he's hurt Merlin – _truly_ hurt Merlin, because Arthur sends him back to his rooms weekly with new bruises in an attempt to beat some knowledge of weaponry and self defense into Merlin thick head – then he needs to fix that. He will not be the kind of person who dismisses the feelings of others. He won't.

When they eventually arrive at Arthur's chambers, the door is partially open and they can hear Merlin banging about inside. Something falls, breaks and Merlin starts muttering angrily about, well, Arthur isn't sure because Merlin's voice is suddenly muffled. When they peek inside, all they can see of Merlin are his boots and his arse, the rest of him lost within the shadows beneath Arthur's bed.

Merlin backs out slowly, and Arthur knows the moment he realizes he's no longer alone. His shoulders tense and he goes all stiff. He reminds Arthur of himself, just moments earlier when Gwaine had touched him and it seems right, almost natural to reach out with one hand and clasp Merlin's shoulder. Merlin shivers but does not pull away.

"Look, Merlin. It wasn't—it wasn't what you think."

"So you and Gwaine weren't hugging," Merlin says, but he doesn’t turn around to face them.

"We were _definitely_ hugging," Gwaine cuts in, leaning casually against one bedpost. He has his arms crossed over his chest, one leg crossed in front of the other and he looks...well, he looks like he belongs there. Which is absurd, Arthur tells himself. "Princess here has never been schooled in the art of hugging. Thought I'd break him in a bit before handing him over to the master."

His words startle Merlin enough that he turns his head, glances over his shoulder at the both of them, gaping. "Master?"

Arthur can see the hurt still tucked deep in the corners of Merlin's eyes. Five years has allowed him to see things Arthur knows he probably over looked in the first two. The way Merlin smiles almost all the time, but how only some of the time does it reach his eyes. The fact that, despite extra servings of food from the cook, he still looks like an underfed waif. How, when Merlin has done something exceptionally _stupid_ and not at all within the laws of Camelot, he manages to look both ridiculously pleased with himself and moderately guilty, like the latter is just a token effort and not particularly genuine.

"Mm. Show him, Merlin."

There is a challenge in Gwaine's gaze, but there is something else, too. Something darker, heavier, and Arthur finds himself wanting to flinch away from it. So fine. He really isn't one for communicating his feelings. That does not make him emotionally stunted. Or whatever.

Merlin eyes them both as he stands up; Gwaine suspiciously and Arthur dubiously. Arthur does not blame him. The last time Merlin went in for a hug, Arthur shot him down and Merlin has not tried since. It is not much of a surprise, therefore, that Merlin suspects trickery, and oddly enough, that makes Arthur feel—well, it does not make him feel good.

“Come on then, Merlin. Teach your prince how to hug like he means it.”

“I’m fairly certain you had that covered back in the armory,” Merlin replies wryly.

“Consider that a warm up.” Gwaine pushes away from the bedpost and moves to stand behind Merlin. He leans in, eyes locked on Arthur’s and whispers something against Merlin’s temple that could almost be a kiss. His breath stirs the hairs there, and it looks so intimate, Arthur feels a bit like a voyeur.

Merlin gives Gwaine a funny look, like he doesn’t know what to make of the demand, but he does it anyway. Which, really? Merlin is never complacent when following _Arthur’s_ orders and he’s the bloody _crown prince_! Before he can get himself well and truly worked up, Arthur is yanked out of that thought by the heat of Merlin’s body, the press of Merlin’s long, slender fingers along the back of his neck and Arthur knows – he _knows_ – that this is going to be much different than his hug with Gwaine. There are going to be _feelings_ , and Arthur is not sure he is equipped to deal with them. He has half a mind to say so, has the words ready on the tip of the tongue, but it’s already too late. Merlin moves in, presses so close Arthur is dizzy with it. He slides his arms around Arthur’s shoulder – not like how Gwaine had done it, with one arm under Arthur’s, the other over – and holds him close.

This way, with Merlin’s cheek pressed to Arthur’s and his fingers tangling in Arthur’s hair, the hug is much more intimate. Arthur has to fight down the urge to shove Merlin and his feelings away, to escape from things that are unfitting for a crown prince to acknowledge, let alone act upon. His hands clench and he can feel a sweat break out on his forehead that has nothing to do with the oppressive weight of his chainmail. This is nothing like Gwaine’s hug. There is no easing into this, no slow transition. It’s Merlin, plain and simple, and Arthur thinks he would not have it any other way.

“You’re doing it all wrong,” Gwaine murmurs.

Arthur is startled into awareness by the unexpected heat of Gwaine’s body at his back. He nearly steps out of Merlin’s embrace, means to, but Gwaine is capturing Arthur’s wrists in his hands, bringing Arthur’s arms up and wrapping them around Merlin’s back. There is a subtle difference between hugging – good god, _hugging_ – Merlin versus Gwaine, though to be fair, Arthur had not actually been taking notes when Gwaine has hugged him. He is now, though. He allows Gwaine to control the movements of his hands, focuses instead on taking everything in. The thinness of Merlin’s shirt, the knobby line of his spine – Arthur makes a mental note to see that Merlin is given more of the sweet meats and anything else that will add some much-needed meat to his bones – and the way his whole body shudders as he exhales shakily.

Without prompting, Arthur tightens his grip, drags Merlin impossibly closer and closes his eyes against everything else. There is something not quite fragile, but certainly less sturdy, about Merlin’s leaner frame, something that makes Arthur want to wrap himself around Merlin, protect him from whatever it is that dims his smile. Possibly from Arthur himself.

“There’s a good lad,” Gwaine whispers, and he’s lucky that Arthur is too caught up in the moment in to care about his patronizing tone.

Arthur breathes in deeply, notes the hints of clary sage and mint and lets them wash over him. He runs his hand down Merlin’s back of his own will, slides it under the indigo material and sucks in a sharp breath at the feel of warm, bare skin beneath his hand. And that—that is Arthur’s breaking point, the moment when he finally fully commits himself to whatever it is they are doing.

Gwaine shifts away and Arthur shivers at the sudden loss of his warmth. He does not open his eyes, though, carefully keeps them shut tight against reality. When Gwaine speaks, his voice is low, gentler than it has ever been in public, and there is an edge to it. Something new and undefined.

“Merlin?”

Merlin pulls back just a little, and Arthur has an irrational urge to yank him back, to tell Gwaine to sod off. He feels Merlin shift against him briefly before he drops his hands from Arthur’s neck and there is a sharp pang at the abandonment. It lasts only as long as Gwaine’s next words.

“You should help his highness out of his chainmail. He can’t be very comfortable like this.”

Merlin makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat and Arthur finds his gaze drawn to the way Merlin’s Adam’s apple bobs. He wants to touch it, wants to press his fingers there, maybe even his mouth. Wants to taste every breath Merlin takes.

Two sets of hands go to work stripping away Arthur’s chainmail and vambraces. Gwaine’s are sure and steady, lifting the heavy metal up over Arthur’s head without letting it catch on his hair. Merlin’s are shaky, his fingers fumbling through a task that has become almost second nature for him. Arthur opens his mouth to ask _what’s wrong_ , but he thinks he knows. So he covers Merlin’s hands with his own, waits for Merlin to look at him and simply says,

“Hey. _Hey_.”

There is a brief moment where it seems like Merlin is going to pull away, but he doesn’t. He dips his head back down, slides the buckles free on the vambraces and lets them drop to the floor. It is only then, when the weight of them is gone, that Arthur realizes where Gwaine’s hands are: pushing Arthur’s trousers down his hips, uncaring that they’ll only tangle in Arthur’s boots.

“Just—stop. Gwaine, stop. He’s going to fall flat on his arse and I’ll be the one spending a week in the stocks for it!” Merlin laughs breathlessly.

Merlin drops to his knees and taps Arthur’s leg, but Arthur can’t move, not even to lift his foot. He can’t do anything but stare down at the top of Merlin’s head and think about filling his hands with those short, dark locks. So when Merlin loses his patience and just jerks Arthur’s leg up, Arthur nearly loses his balance – and what was the point of yelling at Gwaine if Merlin was going to do it himself. Gwaine appears just in time, steadies him with both hands. He kneads Arthur’s shoulders, forcing out the tension that has been mounting since they arrived in Arthur’s chambers and Arthur shrugs, not to escape the attention, but recapture the ease of earlier. It works.

Once his boots are off, Arthur fully expects Merlin to stand up, to maybe do the hugging thing again. Instead, Merlin’s hands slide up Arthur’s legs and gently tug this trousers the rest of the way done. Just like that, Arthur is keenly aware of how his body is responding to all of this, the way his cock has filled so that the head is peeking out of the foreskin, an angry purple-red. It looks obscene bobbing in the air as Arthur is helped out of the last of his clothes, but Arthur is saved from further indignity by Gwaine’s hand wrapping around him. His thumb slides over the crown and Arthur shivers hard enough that Merlin rubs a soothing hand over his belly before climbing to his feet once more.

At the press of Merlin’s lips just below the line of his jaw, Arthur brings his hands up, settling one on Merlin’s hip while the other cradles the back of his head. It’s selfish, the desire to hold Merlin closer, but Arthur doesn’t care, not right now. He lets Merlin continue to mouth a path down his neck, tilts his head back so that it is resting against Gwaine’s shoulder and when their eyes lock, Arthur doesn’t try to hide a thing.

 _Kissing_ is something in which Arthur is confident of his skill. He has, with the aid of a few much-trusted knights, been able to slip out of the castle to visit taverns in nearby towns. And once or twice, after too much wine and not enough food, he has found a young lord more than willing to be pressed into a haystack or into an alcove. But hugging was never a part of that. Not like this, where he is surrounded by two bodies so thoroughly entwined he cannot tell where Merlin ends and Gwaine begins. He isn't even confident that it is Gwaine stroking his cock. He breaks the kiss to glance down and just stares, watching as Merlin’s hand find’s his cock and Gwaine’s slips away. It is not surprising at all that Merlin knows just how hard to grip him, how to twist his wrist on every other upward tug.

Gwaine disappears once more, but the sound of rustling clothing is all Arthur needs to hear to be reassured. This, whatever _this_ is, is not over yet. They’re committed to seeing it through, and even though Arthur thinks he should be concerned about that – about bedding not only a fellow knight, but his manservant as well – because no matter what, this will change everything, for better or for worse. When Gwaine returns, naked and hot-skinned, pressing himself to every part of Arthur possible, Arthur makes the executive decision that this is definitely for the better.

Merlin is last to pull away, and when he sheds his clothing it is not with the hectic flurry Arthur expects from him. It is slow, deliberate; not like he is putting on a show, but like he does not wish to rush this. His gaze flits between Gwaine and Arthur, dark and hungry and Arthur is struck with a sudden understanding.

“Idiot,” he says, and he yanks Merlin towards him, catching him when Merlin trips over his trousers. It is almost an instinct now, to wrap his arms around Merlin. As Arthur reels him in, it occurs to him that he has not yet tasted Merlin and he rectifies that, sealing his lips over Merlin’s plush mouth.

Gwaine gives them only a moment to enjoy themselves before he’s pressing in as well and Merlin groans under the assault. He still has one leg caught up in his trousers and Arthur tugs it up, holds it steady while Gwaine goes about stripping that last layer away and then...then they are all gloriously naked.

“I think we’d best move this next part to the bed, _sire_ ,” Gwaine suggests with only the faintest hint of irony in the last word. He follows it up with a swift slap to Arthur’s backside that earns Gwaine a glare he laughs off easily.

Somehow they make it to the bed, collapsing in a tangle of limbs and sheets. Arthur is the first to pry his way loose, and he props himself up on one elbow so he can stare down at Merlin. He drinks in the sight of him; long pale body, the sharp jut of hipbone. His gaze slides to Gwaine and even though the difference in their builds is drastic, there is no comparison, no room for one to fall short of the other. Merlin’s slenderness suits him just as Gwaine’s muscular build is right for him.

Merlin goes quiet, and for a moment, Arthur suspects his mind is being read, that Merlin is plucking out all his thoughts and turning them round in his head. He spares little worry over what the verdict will be, leaning down to press his mouth to Merlin’s, before stretching over him to share a kiss with Gwaine. He is only slightly startled by the addition of Merlin’s tongue curving around his and Gwaine’s; it’s awkward and wet, but they make it work and it does.

With a nudge to Merlin’s ribs, Gwaine has him rolling onto his side, his back to Gwaine, his front pressed to Arthur’s. Arthur hauls him in, pulls Merlin’s leg up over his hip and settles into the cradle of his body. Like this, Arthur can reach Gwaine. He palms a thick, muscular thigh, urges Gwaine to move in closer until Arthur can mold his hand over the curve of Gwaine’s arse, fingers digging into the flesh.

In turn, Gwaine touches Merlin, strokes down his chest, over his belly where the skin is sensitive, prickline beneath his finger. He ends where Merlin’s cock is trapped beside Arthur’s. Gwaine’s hand disappears, and Arthur feels the first curl of anticipation low in his gut when Gwaine licks across his palm, gets it shining wet with spit, then slides it back down between them. He knows what it is coming, but the shock of it, of Gwaine’s hand grasping them both at once, still earns a gasp from Arthur.

Gwaine punctuates every stroke with a roll of his hips, and Arthur can guess at what he's doing. He imagines the thick head of Gwaine’s cock rubbing slickly between the cheeks of Merlin's arse, teasing him with not-enough-pressure pushes against Merlin's hole. It's like a punch to the gut, Arthur's desire to see it. He wants to watch it open up around his and Gwaine's fingers, see it flutter when there is nothing there to fill it.

Arthur lets his hand slide down, brushes his fingers along the length of Gwaine's cock and feels it pulse. He pauses in his quest to wrap his hand around it and when he sweeps his thumb over the slit, he finds it wet with precome. He uses that to slick the way and gives Gwaine two rough jerks before moving on.

Merlin manages to distract him with a kiss and Arthur allows it. He slides his tongue between Merlin's lips, licks his way over Merlin's teeth, then pulls away and nudges Merlin's head back with his nose. The message is clear; Gwaine groans his approval as he moves in.

Arthur would complain that Gwaine is being neglectful, but Arthur is hard, so fucking hard he's not certain he will last as it is. He turns his attention back to Merlin, slipping his fingers, still slick from Gwaine, down and inward. He knows the moment he's found it because Merlin moans low in his throat, pushing back against the single digit.

There is resistance when Arthur pushes in, enough that he withdraws, twists around on his bed to find the oil Merlin uses when Arthur is sore and tense from training. He dips one finger in – he'll have to get a new jar after this – and drags a wet line across Merlin's thigh to his hole. Arthur pushes just the tip in and freezes as Merlin's body clenches down instinctively.

"God, Merlin," Arthur breathes, because it is everything he could have hoped for and nothing he expected.

He glances up and at his nod, Gwaine shifts his grip so he is holding Merlin's thigh, pushing it up until Merlin is spread wide open.

"Oh. Oh _God_ , I—Arthur. Gwaine, _please_."

The words are barely more than whine. Arthur drinks in the sight: Merlin's cheeks flushed with arousal, his eyes bright. Gwaine brings his hand up and captures Merlin's chin, tilts his head back for a demanding kiss. When it ends, Gwaine redirects him toward Arthur, timing his next stroke to coincide with Arthur's tongue dipping into the corner of Merlin's mouth, tasting the secrets he hides there.

As Merlin's body opens for him, Arthur adds a second finger, twists them both while Merlin pants wetly against his neck. The hand Gwaine has been using to hold Merlin's leg in place joins Arthur's and he pushes one finger in alongside Arthur's two.

It takes some work to get it right, to find a rhythm they can both maintain, but they do and it's worth it. Merlin curls an arm around Arthur's neck as though to anchor himself even as he pushes back against their fingers. He looks amazing, beautiful in a way that makes Arthur's heart hurt and his stomach clench painfully, but he doesn't know how to put into words, let alone voice the too-revealing thoughts. Arthur is reassured by Gwaine's relative silence, though. If Gwaine, who talks almost as much as Merlin, feels no need to clutter the air with talk, then Arthur does not either.

Merlin writhes between them, catching first Arthur's mouth in a kiss that is wet and filthy, then Gwaine's. He is unashamedly greedy as he drags them both closer, but Arthur finds it no hardship to indulge him. He shifts the arm tucked beneath Merlin's head, reaches up to tangle his fingers in Gwaine's thick hair and pulls him in. He can hear Merlin's annoyed growl as he fills Gwaine's mouth with his tongue, so he presses a third finger inside. It is not as slick as the others, but Merlin is loose enough now that there is little resistance.

Arthur can feel the slow build of his orgasm and he thrusts against Merlin, cock dragging through the course hairs of his belly. He rocks his hips down, feels the slide of Merlin’s cock alongside his own and shudders. He wants more, needs it if he’s to come, but he cannot bring himself to withdraw his fingers from the heat of Merlin’s body. Not yet. Merlin knows what he wants though, and he presses his hand against Arthur’s mouth. Arthur licks it, gets it as wet as possible and when it is gone, when Merlin is taking them both in hand, Arthur kisses him again.

It is harder from this angle, far more awkward than before, to fit all their mouths together. When they manage it, Merlin sighs. Arthur keeps his hips still as Merlin jerks them, but his fingers are moving, twisting in and out of Merlin’s body in tandem with Gwaine’s. He isn’t sure when Gwaine added a second, and he is amazed at how well Merlin is taking them, five thick fingers, pressing in deep and stretching him wide.

Merlin comes first, body clenching down around the digits still thrusting inside him, spilling into his own hand. He is shaking from the force of it, and Arthur doesn’t hold it against him when he goes lax between them. He removes his fingers carefully and reaches out to wrap his hand around Gwaine’s hot length, brushes his thumb across the head and knows how it feels, the rough drag of calluses against the sensitive skin there. Gwaine slides his arm around Merlin’s waist, tangles his fingers with Merlin’s so they are both covered in Merlin’s come, and they jerk Arthur together, Gwaine doing a majority of the work.

They make it almost a competition, attempting to the throw each others’ rhythms off. Arthur can’t recall the last time he laughed during sex, breathlessly or not, and when Gwaine throws a muttered ‘princess’ at him, he does not even bat an eye. Merlin is still between them, half-asleep and not really paying them much mind, other than to tighten his grip every few strokes. It is Gwaine who slips the tip of a finger under the tight edge of Arthur’s foreskin, presses his nail into the slit filling Arthur with sharp pain-tinged pleasure.

It is a matter of pride for Arthur that he is the last to come. Gwaine spills over Arthur’s fingers with a grunt after little more than a minute and Arthur uses that to slick his way back into Merlin. There is no rhythm as Arthur thrusts three fingers inside him; he is too far gone for that now. Gwaine continues to stroke him, grip still firm despite the fucked-out exhaustion tugging at the corners of his eyes. It is when Merlin pulls him down though, when they both press their mouths to Arthur’s like they are staking their claim, that he comes, cock jerking in their hands.

~ * ~

Merlin untangles himself from between them, staggering across the room to where wash basin rests. He digs up a couple of cloths from God only knows where, and cleans himself off. He is not shy about reaching behind him, one hand braced on the table as he slides the cloth between the cheeks of his arse, washes away oil and come. Arthur lets out a low groan at the sight, but his cock is too spent to show even a twitch of interest. From across the bed, Gwaine leers, first at Merlin, then at Arthur. It is so unexpected when he moves that Arthur lets out a startled gasp and he puts up little resistance as Gwaine resettles them. He grimaces as his hip drags through the wet spot between them, but manages to miss it when he turns onto his back. A small favor, he thinks.

The bed dips beside him and then Merlin is there, pressing up along his side, dragging the warm wet cloth over his stomach. Gwaine snags the second cloth and wipes himself down, and he does not watch to see where it lands when he hurls it across the room. Arthur has a chastisement on the tip of his tongue, but Gwaine sucks it away before it can be voiced. Later, Arthur tells himself, he will remind Gwaine that the prince’s quarters are not a dumping ground. He will not, however, ask Merlin how the water in the basin is warm when it has not been changed since morning. Those are questions he does not care to have the answers to, not yet.

When Merlin is done, he drops the cloth onto the bedside table, out of the way of Arthur’s belongings, and curls around Arthur once more. Arthur expects it to be a short embrace. Instead, Gwaine follows suit, adding his own not unsubstantial weight to that of Merlin’s. They crush down upon Arthur, forcing the breath out of his chest in a quick burst before they ease up. After a long moment, he finally breaks the silence.

“What are you too doing?”

“Hugging?”

Arthur snorts. “This is not hugging. I am not so unfamiliar with the concept that you can fool me on that.”

Merlin mumbles something, but it is lost against Arthur’s shoulder, so Arthur prods him into repeating it. “I said,” Merlin huffs, shifting only enough so that his cheek is pressed to Arthur’s chest, breath stirring the hairs there, “it’s called _cuddling_ , you prat. Don’t you ever do that afterwards, or are you the kind of ass who kicks his partner out of bed before the afterglow has even faded?”

Arthur should take offense at that, or at the very least threaten Merlin with a week in the stocks. Instead, he curls his arm around Merlin's shoulders and tugs him up, settles them so that Merlin's head is tucked beneath his chin. He grunts when Gwaine rearranges himself, goes all sea serpent-limbs as he sprawls across the both. It's slightly uncomfortable, somewhat terrifying in its newness, but it is also utterly... _right_. It is, Arthur thinks as he drifts off to sleep, very much like a drawn-out hug. Not so terrible after all.

And if tomorrow Arthur lets his hand linger when shoves at Merlin's head, or if he leans into the touch when Gwaine lays a hand on his shoulder? Well, that's really nobody else's business but theirs. It might take some time before Arthur is comfortable with _initiating_ hugs, but that's okay. Merlin and Gwaine will be there.


End file.
